Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
“Fucking have me then,” is growled in tandem with me yanking her forward to bury myself deeper.
Loud, cupidinous moans are accompanied by her deliciously dark nipples brushing my chest as though they’re the world’s sexiest paintbrushes and my chest the only canvas made for them.
The heavenly sensation somehow feels more heavenly.
Almost paralyzingly pure.
And completely losing myself to the way we carnally coalesce occurs without consent.
Although, I would happily give it.
Being able to experience the giving and the taking sans the barrier is the type of oblation you make to the goddess, not the one she offers to you, the mere mortal who doesn’t deserve her presence.
And I don’t.
I know I don’t deserve June Bailey.
Which makes me even more dedicated to not wasting an ounce of whatever she’s willing to give me of herself.
Like a studious student committed to pleasing my professor, I study the speed that causes her jaw to tremble and her head to bounce backward. I toy with the pressure against her swollen numb on each pound, gauging how much more is needed to make her pussy paint wetness all across my sac and how little is necessary to make her scream.
Shudder.
Scratch at my shoulders and shout up to the sky in pure ecstasy.
Back and forth she glides, coating every single centimeter from base to tip, tip to base, back to the tip again. While I watch the barbaric mixture of my precum and her wetness glisten in the early morning light, she grabs two fistfuls of my hair. Wrenches me to her and her to me. Whimpers and whines and works harder and faster for the orgasm her pussy is warning me is already near. Part of me wants to prolong this moment, postpone the first time I come in the most sacred of destinations, yet the other part of me, the part that’s panting, popping her on the ass, silently proclaiming she belongs to me and only me can hardly wait another moment to paint her pussy white.
“You wanted me,” I wolfishly rumble at the same time I deliver another sharp swat to her firm, right cheek, “fucking come all over me.”
June crazily croaks and increases her efforts to do just that.
Her pulsating pussy possessively clamps down on my cock, cutting off its ability to ever escape – not that I want to – and unrelentingly constricts over and over and over again to the point I can’t even catch my breath.
All of a sudden, faint sounds of a motor flood through the air, threatening to derail us when we’re so close, too close, to coming undone.
“Let them fucking hear you, baby,” I declare and continue our frantic fucking. “Let them see how beautiful you look coming on my cock.”
June throws her head back to unleash one very high-pitched shriek that not only shakes our seat but the essence of my soul. Wet waves wash over my cock worshiping it, laving it, avouching her love of it, leaving me with no choice but to do the same.
To brand her with blistering bursts.
Bruise her further with even more brutal spanks.
I come harder than I ever imagined possible, each kick of my dick declaring this is the only place this will ever be possible.
Not because other women wouldn’t be open to the idea.
No.
I know they are.
This isn’t the first time one wanted to connect uncovered.
It’s just the first time I was ever willing to.
Truly wanting to.
Which I know without a doubt is a billboard sign from Fate.
The only problem is…I’m not so sure I’m ready to accept it.
Chapter 12
June
My boyfriend – which even after a week of endless sex, cuddling, and painting all over the house I can still hardly fathom having – is certifiably crazy.
I initially thought this when he brought up eating bugs.
I thought this again when he made a papier-mâché goose that his goose bestie drowned.
I thought it once more when he told Ivy about an art practice he once partook in, in an unnamed country where the artists undergo brief moments of anesthesia in order to enhance their creativity.
And here I am thinking it for what I pray to Picasso is the final time.
Because honestly?
I’m not sure I can handle him getting anymore batshit off his paint stool.
My arms fold firmly across the floral, tie in the front, crop top I can’t believe I’m wearing in public. “You want me to do what?”
“Take your top off in there, so I can paint you.”
“Can you hear you?” I sassily bite on a lifted brow. “Does it sound different for you than it does me?”
Tucker cocks the grin I sort of hate myself for loving as he innocently shrugs. “We just did what you wanted-”
“Oh, you think I wanted to go have Mediterranean food with your uncle and Aunt, your aunt who just so happens to also be my boss, to prove to her that I wasn’t photoshopping pictures of you every day in order to continue to collect a paycheck?”